Feeding My Dark Passenger
by aliciagoodwin12
Summary: Dexter has not killed in three weeks and his Dark Passenger is eager for blood.


**Title: Dexter – Feeding my **_**Dark Passenger**_

___I chose to write fan fiction about the television series Dexter, a show about a blood splatter analysis who works with the police department and is also a serial killer himself. For those who are not familiar with the show, Dexter witnessed his mother's murder as a small child and sat in her pool of blood for days before he was found. The police officer that found him adopted him, but soon realized he was a dark child and enjoyed killing animals. Knowing he could not prevent Dexter from becoming a killer, his father trained him to abide by a special code of personal laws: he would only kill people who were guilty of murdering innocents. He also taught him how to properly kill and dispose of bodies without leaving evidence. _

_ I actually did a creative writing minor in undergrad so this assignment was fun for me. It has been awhile since I have had the opportunity to write creatively, but I found that I got back into it very easily. I tried very hard to maintain Dexter's unique voice throughout the draft below. For those who are familiar with the show, I would appreciate any feedback you have to offer. For those who aren't familiar, Dexter narrates the show through each episode. We hear his dialogue with his other characters in the show and also get his internal monologue, which adds some comic relief to an otherwise morbid series. He is very well spoken, calm, pensive, and intellectual. _

It's only 8 p.m. and I can already tell my _Dark Passenger_ will not be pacified this evening. I have long since given up trying to stifle these urges, but for some reason tonight the need to kill is stronger. It is the hunger of a lone wolf, isolated from its pack, agonizing and unfed. In my case, it has been three weeks. You would think in Miami, the crime capital of Florida, I would never run out of deserving candidates, but lately there have not been enough justifiable cases for my indulgence. You could say it's been a bit of a dry spell, and with no worthy candidates I am feeling a little fatigued with the day to day routine. But I must follow the code. The code is the only thing separating me from beast.

Angel insisted we go out for dinner at the new hibachi restaurant around the corner from the station. He said it was on him so I agreed to accompany my lonesome co-workers for an evening of grilled meats and alcohol. Since the trouble with his wife, Angel has been drinking a little more than usual. He was in the middle of chatting up the waitress when my phone rang: a call from Deb, ever the workaholic. Right now though, I was glad for any distraction from my _Dark Passenger_.

"We fucken got him" she said, as soon as I picked up. "I mean, we identified him anyways. But who the fuck cares? We know who the fucken Red Strangler is!"

I tried to sound relieved, though I'd been tracking a man by the name of John Escarlet for two nights now, hoping he'd slip – give me any reason to slit his throat. It sounded like Deb had found whatever piece of evidence I had been missing. I wondered: what did I overlook?

"That's great, Deb," I sighed into the receiver. "One less killer on the streets. Be right over."

I concealed a smirk as I tucked my phone into my front pocket. Now all I had to do was stop by the station, make an appearance, and then, then I could feed my carnal urge to slice through layer upon layer of skin, the epidermal foundation of a serial killer.

The whole room was covered top to bottom in cellophane, the purest environment to execute my entire procedure. My father's words echoed through my subconscious: "don't get caught." My victim, John Escarlet lie flat and naked on a gurney in the center of the room. I had yet to cover his mouth and he trembled, cold and vulnerable in front of me, begging for mercy.

"Please. You have the wrong person," he sputtered pathetically. "Please. I'm just an insurance agent!"

I slowly sharpened the blade I would use to puncture his neck, disgusted. "Don't lie to me, John. We both know exactly who you are."

"No, no! Please. You have to believe me!" The man shook with terror, ironically in the reverse position than he was accustomed to, left without power, without dominance.

I held out a photograph of a little girl, smiling at the beach. I always brought a little piece of evidence along, perhaps a whole collage if the situated warranted. I wanted these bottom feeders to feel remorse, to repent their sins.

"Cut it out, John. Think of Sadie. Think of her mother and father; they will never see their daughter again." I ran the tip of my blade across his cheek. Red oozed from the shallow wound.

"Okay, okay. I admit it: I'm sick! Please don't do this." He writhed on the cool, hard table and I stretched the silver duct tape over his mouth, that gaping hole full of excuses and deceit.

The room was quiet, aside from stifled moans and a deep, dull screaming, as I pressed the blade into his neck and dragged the point from clavicle to clavicle. Peace at last for my _Dark Passenger_. I felt my heart rate slow and stabilize as John Escarlet's blood drained into the bucket below the gurney. I would sleep easy tonight. One more dismembered body at the bottom of the Atlantic.


End file.
